Caddie looked toward the shore, which was farther away than Ben would have liked. They had swum around the kelp forest and were now closer to the north end of the beach. While he would have preferred to go back the way they’d come, it would be faster to go straight in.

“I can do it,” Caddie said.

“Good girl,” Ben said. “I know you can.”

Since their masks had sunk, they swam on their backs. This was harder, and Ben was tired after only a few yards. He kicked harder, thinking perhaps his legs had become entangled in some kelp. Then he felt a strange warmth wash over his skin. No, he prayed. Please, no.

Caddie was beside him. As the tingling sensation increased, Ben tried to reach for her and found that he could barely move his fingers.

“Caddie,” he said.

“I’m okay, Dad,” she answered.

“Caddie,” Ben repeated, “I need your help.”

Suddenly, his vision filled with exploding stars. He opened his mouth to speak and found that he couldn’t. Then all was blackness.

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 42

Hudson placed the battered manuscript on Helen Guerneyser’s desk. “This is for you,” he told her.

The archivist looked at the papers, which by now were dirty and torn from repeated readings. Hudson’s illegible scrawl filled the margins, and an assortment of sticky notes protruded from between the pages, as if he had pressed butterflies between them. Helen looked over her glasses at the title page. “Changing Tides,” she read. “What is it, something you wrote?”

“If I’m right, it’s something Steinbeck wrote,” Hudson told her. She looked up, quickly, and he continued. “A colleague of mine, who has since died, found this,” he explained.

“How long have you had it?” she asked.

Hudson hesitated. “About three years,” he said truthfully.

Helen picked the manuscript up and leafed through the pages.

“This is a copy, obviously,” Hudson said. “The original is in a safe place.”

“I’d ask you why this wasn’t turned over to the Stanford archives,” Helen said. “Or to us,” she added. “But I think I can guess the answer to that myself.” Her voice held no animosity, and Hudson knew that she understood fully the impossibility of any academic handing over such a potentially exciting find.

“Is it any good?” Helen asked him.

“It’s very good,” said Hudson. “It’s unfinished, but it’s very good. But ...”

Helen stopped flipping and looked at him, waiting. “But?” she encouraged.

“I can’t prove that it’s by Steinbeck,” Hudson said. “And even if I could, I’m not sure it would be the best idea.”

Helen took her glasses off and placed the end of one earpiece between her lips. “Eleanor Mintz called me,” she said. “She’s under the impression that it’s your intention to try to blackmail the foundation.”